


Demons

by DancingOnCapitals



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221b, Anxiety, Depression, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, i don't know sherlock is having a really hard time, taking care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-10
Updated: 2015-10-13
Packaged: 2018-02-20 07:24:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2420075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DancingOnCapitals/pseuds/DancingOnCapitals
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which John returns to Bakerstreet to discover that Sherlock is haunted by more demons than before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Burning Bridges

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to AO3-user JayEz for offering me a beta and correcting my bad language.

It was the day when he decided it was over. He had to move on. Months had passed since She left. He decided he was over it. Over the betrayal, the heartbreak and the mistakes that had been made.

He turned up his collar against the cold and sharp November wind as he closed the transporter's doors, then tapped against it's back. The transporter slowly started to move and he stood and watched it disappear; as the rain set in he turned and entered the now empty flat apartment It was cold and he felt a sudden loneliness as he wandered through the empty rooms one last time. He ran his hand over the doorframes, the walls, and the window boards; his steps echoed through the space and he turned off the lights. The sun had already set and the rain was falling in heavy drops on his hair; the street almost empty. He didn't even try to catch a cab but closed the garden gate and turned right. It came in handy. He needed to clear his mind and what would be of better use than a walk in the cold air.

 

Halfway, he noticed that it might not have been the best idea; he was cold and tired and it was all he could think about. So he took a cab to his destination. A couple of minutes later he paid the cabbie and stood in the cold air again. The wind hit him and cut through his jacket. _Is this a good idea?_ Doubts began to creep into his mind. He hadn’t even warned them that he would come (or: that he was coming). What if he couldn't stay? He had nowhere else to go. He forcefully shook his head. Of course he could stay. They were friends.  
John Watson searched his pockets for the key. They wouldn’t have changed the lock – they hadn’t last time. He pulled out a key he hadn't used in a while. Hesitating, he looked up the terrace front then glanced at his wristwatch. 9.38pm. Of course there was still light behind those red curtains. John walked up and down the pavement still not sure whether to enter or not. He sighed and wiped a spot from the once shiny 'b', then put the key in the lock. They matched. The door swung open and the staircase appeared in front of him, dark and intimidating like a cave. The impression got lost the second he turned on the light and climbed up the stairs, which creaked underneath his cold feet.  
Should he knock or just enter? He wasn't sure. He had once lived here after all. He decided to just enter and opened the door. A strange smell and rattling of glass welcomed him. _He's experimenting again. If there's bodyparts in the fridge again?_ He smiled.As if he had never left.  
  
"Sherlock?!" he shouted into the flat.  
Rumbling. Glass clashing. Silence.  
"Sherlock? It's me, John. John Watson!" John shouted. "May I enter?" Suddenly, A feeling overcame John that it might not have been the best idea to come here after all, just as a pale face framed by dark curls appeared around the corner.  
Sherlock Holmes blinked and stared at John Watson as if he was a ghost.  
"Hello, John." he whispered.

 

 


	2. Back Home

The kettle whistled. John filled his cup with boiling water and carried the tea to the small table in front of the sofa while Sherlock was still standing where he had greeted him.  
"Where's my chair?" he asked.  
No answer.  
"Listen, Sherlock. I need to talk to you," John continued.  
Silence.

John sighed and stood up, grabbing the hot cup. "Alright. I assume my old room is empty? I'll take it tonight if you don't mind; maybe you'll talk again tomorrow. Good night, Sherlock."

John ascended the stairs and opened the door to the room where he used to sleep. It looked like he had never left. Only the wardrobes were empty. Mrs Hudson must have made his bed, even in his absence. He placed the cup on his bed table and sat down on the sheets. As he looked around he noticed that one door of his wardrobe, where he had left some old jumpers, was not fully closed. He had not been motivated enough to get rid of them and had left them for Mrs Hudson. John stood up again and pushed the door all the way open to take a look inside.  
The jumpers were still there. It looked messy, though. As if someone had taken them out and thrown them back again. Also, one was missing. He noticed because it was his favourite: grey, knitted with braided parts. The one he had worn during their first case. It must have gone missing when he had moved out.

A look at his wristwatch: 11.49pm. How time passed. He felt like he had just entered the flat while on the other hand this day seemed to have lasted forever. A sip from the tea. Cold. He put the cup back and crawled under the blanket, fully clothed. A minute later he was fast asleep.


	3. A Black Vale

Sherlock moved. _John is here_. _John. Johnjohnjohn._ He hadn't moved in hours. His ankles snapped. A slow step. One step more. He sat down on his chair; the leather creaked.  
One thought filled his mind. _John._ He tried to breathe continuously. Calm his pulse. But there was no use. His heart bumped as if he had run a marathon and he had barely caught his breath.

Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to think, order his thoughts. _John is here. John came back._ But why? Why now? He couldn't think properly. He jerked to a stand grabbed his coat and left.  
The moment he popped his collar shortly before he intended to open the door of 221B he heard a door open in the hallway behind him. He turned around. A sleepy Mrs Hudson stood there, clothed in a dressing gown and blinked at him with heavy eyes.  
"Sherlock?" her voice thin and barely audible.  
"Ah, Mrs Hudson. I'm leaving for a walk. Go to bed," Sherlock said in the dry tone of his voice he had got used to. Mrs Hudson sighed but remained silent. She gave him a look as if she just knew and closed the door, almost without noise.  
Sherlock turned and opened the door, gasping for breath as the air of the frosty night blew right in his face. He popped his collar again, buried his hands in his coat pockets and started his walk down Baker Street.

He was only a few streets away from home while a light rain was making its way down from the clouds when it lowered down on him. Again. _No. Why? I don't understand. John returned. Why is it still haunting me?_ Sherlock began to panic; like every night when the weight crushed his chest and his mind went all loud and noisy and flickering just to turn black afterwards. Like every night when darkness crept through the windows and doors and made its way through each hole and each crack in the walls. When the loneliness and the weight of the world pressed down his shoulders and threatened to swallow him.

The Black Vale.

It had become an old friend during the last years, and a steady companion. Sherlock made his way home as fast as he could, for he was already struggling to fill his lungs - which felt like two useless holy bags – with enough oxygen. He stumbled towards 221B fiddling for the keys and was unlocking the door when his legs failed their service. They buckled, the door swung open, he tripped over the doorsill, and sank to the hallway floor where he closed his eyes.

He didn't know how long he had lain on the cold ground grasping for breath but he slowly recovered and sat up. He looked around. Mrs Hudson stood there; she seemed worried and looked down at him sadly.  
"Oh, Sherlock!" she exclaimed and moved, reaching out her hands to help him up. Sherlock waved her hands aside and stood up with difficulty.  
"I'll make us some good tea. A nice cuppa will make you feel better, my dear," she determined and lead him inside her kitchen where she filled the kettle and placed it on the stove.  
"The breathlessness again?" Mrs Hudson said. It wasn't a question. Of course she knew. "Darling," she continued after a moment. "I see it becoming worse everyday. I see it even though you think you can hide it, my dear, but I neither know how to help you, nor if you want someone to help you." She turned around but not fast enough for Sherlock to miss her looks crumbling and her eyes filling up with tears.  
He didn't understand why or what had happened to him to make him feel this need but he stood up and hugged her. "Don't you worry about me. I'm fine. See, got tea, got you. Lucky me." He cracked a smile, then became himself again, turned around and left without another word.  
  
Back in the hallway he breathed in a few times then closed the door that kept swinging heavily in the November wind. His legs felt heavy as he took the stairs up to his flat but he made it eventually

"Sherlock?" He froze.  
"Sherlock, are you alright?" John stood in the kitchen, the kettle in his right hand and a cup in the other.  
"J... John..?" he stuttered. Oh, how could he hide it now?  
"My god, you look terrible!" John put down both the kettle and the cup between Sherlock's chemical instruments and headed towards his friend.  
Sherlock couldn't help but lean a bit towards him. Just a bit, not much and John didn't seem to notice. He stopped and looked up at Sherlock's face.  
And he looked away. He couldn't look into John's eyes for even a second without suddenly hurting like someone had ripped his heart out of his chest. _  
He left you. John left you, remember? He doesn't care, so why should he come back now. He's not real, Sherlock. John left you!_ The voice in his head got louder and louder until it was screaming the last sentence. So he backed off. Fast. Too fast. He lost balance, stumbled backwards and tripped over the carpet. He fell and his head dashed against the floor; his world faded to black.


	4. A Feathery Emptiness

His eyes were heavy but he forced himself to open them anyway. His head felt like a log of wood and it wasn't easy to focus on anything.  
Light shone through the thin curtains and broke on something shaping a shadow all the way from the chair underneath the window to his bed, dyeing his white blankets a bluish-grey.  
The shadow looked familiar. Distorted but still familiar. Oh yes, he knew that shape. He had thought/had been thinking about this shape for more than five years now. Thinking about parts of it. Thinking about the whole thing. He still spent a lot of time thinking about where to run his fingers over the curves of it, which way to touch it, how it would feel.  
He tried to sit up but fell backwards immediately, his head bouncing on his pillow.  
  
A snore from the window. John's head rolled and his chin come to rest on his chest, eyes kept closed. _Has he sat there the whole night?_ For the first time since he awoke, Sherlock wondered what had happened and how he had ended up here in his bed for he didn't remember even entering the room.  
Again he tried to get up and groaned. His head threatened to burst if he launched another attempt.  
  
"I am here. I am awake!" John jumped off his chair looking confused, struggling to orientate himself. A couple of seconds later he seemed to remember where he was and relaxed a bit. Heavy eyes and a voice rough from sleep. The snoring obviously took its toll by making his throat all scratchy and sore. He harrumphed and looked at his friend, a slight concern in his eyes.  
"How are you, Sherlock? Does your head ache?"  
"I am fine." His third attempt to get up failed and proved him wrong.  
"Come here, mate..." John was even more confused now. Summoning up his courage again, he continued, "I'll help you up and make us some tea."  
"John!" Pain. "I am fine, John, just... just leave me alone."  
"Okay. But only until the tea is ready!" John's voice rose as he explained "I am your bloody doctor, Sherlock! You might have a concussion and I won’t leave you alone for the next twelve hours. Also we need to talk, so I'll probably stay beyond that." With these words, he exited, leaving Sherlock alone for at least five minutes.

The second the door closed his memories returned to him. Yes, he had fallen pretty hard and his head hurt a lot, also his poor sight indeed spoke for a concussion. He figured it would be best to stay in bed then and stop struggling to get up if his doctor threatened to care for him anyway. However, he was all right with it since he would spend the next hours with John after all.  
But what was it John wanted to talk about? He had just returned - would he leave again, so soon? _No, John._ Panic started growing inside his guts. _You just came back. Don't leave me again. Please stay with me._ He felt a beast sitting down on his chest it's claws clinching his heart and lungs. _I can't fight it alone anymore..._ Everything turned black and unconsciousness overtook him  
Clapping on his left cheek while heat pressed against the other. "Sherlock! Open your eyes Sherlock!" He obeyed . John was leaning over him.  
"Oh god, Sherlock. Don't you dare scare me like that again!"  
"I am fine," Sherlock mumbled defiantly.  
"No, you're not. I brought you some tea and scones. We need to check how bad your concussion is and whether you might need to go to the hospital," John insisted.  
Sherlock didn't answer. He honestly felt better. Yes, his head still hurt since he had fallen pretty hard, but he decided to make John stay with him as long as possible. "So, where you're heading then?" he asked, finally participating in the conversation.  
"What are you talking about, Sherlock?" John was visibly confused.  
"You said you wanted to talk to me and since you have nothing with you it's obvious you have your luggage elsewhere, ready to leave. So where is your destination? Paris offers some lucrative medical projects. And Germany..."  
"Just don't!" John interrupted harshly. "Don't start deducing anything now. And where did you get that idea, that I might leave?"  
"Oh, it's obvious!" Sherlock got started "You lost your wife. You have nothing left to keep you here and your income isn't enough to keep the house. Also there's no sense in keeping it since it's too large for one person; even you figured that out."  
"Yes, thank you." John suppressed a smirk. They were back to their old habits. "What makes you think I have nothing left that keeps me in London? Also, you're wrong."  
"No, I am not. Don't even try to lie to me, John Hamish Watson, I know I am right. And where else could you settle now if not to a whole new country?" Sherlock's voice broke and he almost choked on his own words. _Except here, with me,_ he thought and turned his face so John wouldn't see his expression crumbling.  
"That is, uh, what I, um, wanted to talk about with you, uh," John hummed and hawed. "I, uh, thought, um... I, um."  
"Oh for gods sake, John." Sherlock had completely forgotten his headache. What was it John wanted to talk about to him? Did he need money or something? Why was he hesitating? "Sometimes I wonder how you ever got your degree when you're not even able to form a proper sentence." He loved teasing John. Oh, how he'd missed this!  
John finally got to the point. "May I move in again? Can I stay here with you? I know I haven't lived here for a while and maybe you feel better on your own. But maybe I can stay, at least for a while until I know what comes next?" John continued to babble his explanations.

  
Sherlock meanwhile didn't hear any of these. He stared into the air, blinked again and again and tried to catch the sense of what he just heard. _He wants to stay? John wants to come back?_ He couldn't form a thought or the right words.   
His mind was filling with this new information while feeling completely empty at the same time. He couldn't remember when he had last felt like that. How even could he remember for he never did.  
He didn't know how long he had been speechless when he finally noticed the silence. Sherlock looked up. John stood there. He was obviously waiting for something.  
"Pardon?" Sherlock asked.  
"I wanted to know what you have to say?" John sounded disappointed.  
"Um, yes?" Sherlock asked, throwing his reservations in the wind like the ashes of his old life.  
"So you agree?" John looked surprised.  
"How do you feel about the violin?" Sherlock asked.  
"I'm sorry, what?" John's confusion reached a whole new level.  
"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." Sherlock smirked.  
"I..." John looked at his friend. He smiled, then laughed nervously. "Drink your tea, flatmate."

 

 


	5. Domestic Life

**Chapter 5: Domestic Life**

When John woke up that evening, it took him a moment to remember where he was. His neck hurt. He had been sitting in an undesirable position in a not-so-comfortable chair for too long. His head had rolled somewhere on his shoulders where it just didn’t belong and his neck muscles ached. The room was dark except for a thin stripe of moonlight that made its way through the gap between the curtains. It was silent. He listened. No sound. Not even the sound of breathing.  
Panic climbed up his throat, but only for a second. Then he remembered that Sherlock was better and he had determined that Sherlock, if at all, only had a mild concussion. He hadn't thrown up or fainted again.  
John sighed and stood up, shaking his numb limbs.  
"Sherlock?" he asked for nothing. Of course he wasn't here. Through the door he heard a sound. _Music? Is he playing the violin? I had no idea he was on a case._  
Out of curiosity he opened the door and music greeted him in the dark, small corridor. A light shone through the doorway coming from the living room.  
"Sherlock?" he asked again.  
The music stopped.  
Making his way through the corridor and the kitchen, John asked, "Are you alright?" He noticed the gratuitousness of his question; of course he was. He was playing the violin after all. By the time he had reached the living room Sherlock was already sitting in his chair, staring at him. His fingertips were lying against each other resting against his chin, the middle fingers touching his lips.  
"Lestrade called. They have a missing wife and a divorce in progress and an unfaithful husband," he said calmly, still looking at John.  
"So you have a case?" John asked and felt stupid a second later.  
"No. I told them to check the woman's best friend's flat. She probably just didn't want to sleep under the same roof as her soon to-be ex-husband and his man friends. So she left for a while," Sherlock explained. "Then I felt like composing."  
  
John was confused. He was feeling a lot confusion lately.

  
His stomach grumbled and he suddenly realised that he hadn't eaten for hours. Turning towards the kitchen he asked, "Want something to eat too?" He opened the fridge, took a look inside and closed it again. Empty except for some fingers in a jar. Of course. "So, Chinese then?"

  
A few days later, John had finally moved in. Mrs Hudson was happy like she hadn't been in a while and treated him with biscuits and his favourite dishes whenever she got the opportunity.  
  
John had brought the few things he had kept from his life with Mary to his room at 221B the other day. The sole suitcase containing his clothes and laptop stood in the living room when Sherlock returned from a simple investigation one afternoon.  
He looked around. John wasn't there. He was probably working a night shift at the hospital. John was working a lot lately. They also didn't talk much. He snuck towards the suitcase. Slowly. Carefully. As if John could return at any second. When he had finally reached it he opened the suitcase with fast fingers. John had obviously packed in a hurry. He hadn't even washed all of it. A scent of detergent, sweat and paper ascended from unfolded clothes carelessly thrown together.  
 _Something's wrong with this._ Sherlock wondered. _John's a soldier and a doctor. He normally cares to keep everything straight; he wouldn't pack a case like that._ He didn't even know why but he couldn't help pulling out a black and white jumper of John's and pressing his face against the fabric, breathing in the scent of his blogger. Something inside him suddenly vanished; a knot in his guts loosened. Claws that had clasped his heart for so long let go a bit. A feeling of relief spread through his whole body and opened doors to let warmth in for the first time in forever.  
  
A creaking downstairs.  
Sherlock startled.  
Steps on the stairs.  
With something close to light velocity he closed the case and raced into his room, closed the door and threw the jumper in a deep corner of his wardrobe.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, dear, are you there?" Mrs Hudson stood inside the living room.  
With a sigh of relief Sherlock joined her. "Ah, Mrs Hudson. How are we on this wonderful Wednesday afternoon? Anyway, are you here to bring the biscuits I asked you for?" Sherlock hoped she wouldn’t notice what he had done just a few moments before she entered.  
Mrs Hudson seemed confused for a moment but didn't mention anything. "Of course I have. I'll put them in the cupboard." She left for the kitchen babbling about something Sherlock wasn’t really listening to. He feared he might have blushed a bit. "... anyway, John said you seemed strange. Stranger than usual, you know." His attention flickered back to the landlady's chattiness.  
"John talked about me?" he asked.  
"Of course he did, dear, he's so glad to be back. I always wondered why he settled for _her_ so soon. After your parting, he was so dead; packed in a hurry and left without a word. However, you're back together now. We should talk about that. And you should definitely talk with him. I know you sometimes don't talk much, but I also know this isn't the reason." She went on and on, babbling and pouring water into the electric kettle on the kitchen counter.  
Sherlock, meanwhile, had to sit down. He didn't really listen or pay attention to what the old lady had to say; it was just too much.  
The last days had felt unreal, like a dream, a sweet dream from which he would wake any moment. But now for the first time it felt so real and it nearly killed him. His heart was beating so fast and his brain was chewy rubber. There was no air left in the room, his lungs empty. Trying to catch breath was futile and his sight blurred.  
  
A small, light hand lowered onto his shoulder.  
"It's alright, dear. Just breathe. Come on, you know how to do so."  
How long had he been sitting there, bent forward, trying to calm down? He looked up into kind, knowing eyes above a warm smile on skin decorated with wrinkles  
"I’m fine," he said, breathless.  
"No, you're not. Oh, Sherlock!" She squeezed his shoulder. "I know, I know. But it's fine; nothing to be ashamed of. You're just human."  
 _Human._ "No, it's not. It's human error and it's ridiculous!" At last he could breathe again.   


“Of course I thought you we fine now that your … John is back,” she continued after a moment. “but you’re not. It’s getting rather worse, isn’t it?”  
“Mrs Hudson!” Sherlock raised his voice. “There is nothing wrong with me!” He lowered his voice as he continued, “You don’t need to worry about me. I can take care of myself as you know very well.”  
She raised an eyebrow and pursed her lips but kept silent.   
Sherlock’s pulse was calm again so he stood up, straightened his jacket and cleared his throat. “Anyway. If you’d excuse me; I’m busy. Thank you for the biscuits. Have a nice day.” And with these words he hustled her through the door and closed it before she could say one more word.

 

He sighed and returned to his room to continue where he had been interrupted.

The jumper was soft and warm. He enjoyed the smell. The other jumpers had lost theirs months ago and he had missed it a lot. Coincidentally the demons had begun to crawl more emphatic inside his head to rip his soul from that day on.

 

 


	6. A Misapprehension

  
  
John was angry. He rarely got angry because of work. Actually the usual reason for his anger was one of the Holmes brothers; but not today. No, today or, better said, tonight his patience was completely consumed.  
He had treated at least ten people in the last six hours who were more or less badly injured and more or less easily convinced that he only wanted to help when the assistant medical director appeared. At first he hadn’t even noticed her, too busy trying to keep a safe distance from a seven-year-old girl who tried to bite him whenever he would reach out to examine her green and blue arm. The girl had kept him busy for at least thirty minutes and each attempt of explaining to her how important it was to treat arms that had been stuck in an elevator door for hours failed poorly when he heard his supervisor’s voice from behind him. He neither knew why the elevator’s doors would close when there still was something between them nor if it was just a lie the girl’s parents told the nurse at the front desk. He didn’t know how long she had been standing there, observing his fight with a child, when he finally noticed her.

But it all didn’t matter right now. The assistant medical director, a grey-haired woman in her mid-forties named Ms Walters, had just told him that the shift supervisor had made a mistake and he wasn’t even meant to be here that night. Besides the obvious lie that he wasn’t needed here tonight – the ER was as full as a pub during a football game – what really made him angry was the fact that he hadn’t even wanted to come here tonight in the first place.  
Since he had moved in, so few words had been spoken at 221B and John would stay as much as possible in the flat just for the chance the detective would break his silence. So far he didn’t. So John went to work, reluctant, but he went. However, he had felt a sudden change of the atmosphere that day and he had hoped to hear Sherlock’s voice before leaving for the night shift.

So when Ms Walters told him he had come here for nothing, a legit anger grew inside his chest. Although John kept calm, he wrinkled his nose when he thanked her for telling him and left the hospital handing off the fight with the little girl to his assistant medical director.

 

* * *

 

The voices screamed at him. They were dancing around him, laughing and screaming, calling him names. His head was filled with stones crashing against each other and his veins were frozen.

The living room was dark but Sherlock didn’t mind. He was too busy trying to silence the noise.  
His stomach clenched, the skin so cold and his lungs out of breath, he couldn’t imagine surviving it even though he always did. Oh, the tears. His tears burned his eyes and face like acid and he wished for a hole in the ground to open up underneath his chair and swallow him.  
 _Not again! Please not again! I can’t take this anymore_ … he wished to die but not to kill himself. 

A warm hand appeared on his face.  
“Sherlock. Oh, Sherlock...”

_JOHN!_

Silence.

Sherlock looked up into kind blue eyes. John had crouched down right in front of him. 

He sighed.

_Air!_ He panted.  
His lungs finally filled with enough air again. Blood rushed through his veins and warmed his skin.  
A second hand touched his face, now framed in warmth.  
John looked down into his eyes. He was worried, so worried. There was something else. Sherlock couldn’t fathom it first but then it hit him.

  
It was fear. John was scared.  
The man had fought in wars. He had seen death and suffering.And he was scared. Scared by what he saw in those eyes.

Sherlock lifted his head a little more. He enjoyed the silence and his head felt lighter than it did just a few moments ago.  
“Sherlock, what was that?” John asked, not even attempting to hide the concern in his voice.

“I…” Sherlock began but stopped immediately. He couldn’t tell. Only thinking about what he had just felt made the panic swell inside his chest again.

The warmth of John’s hands disappeared from his face and the voices returned right away. Not as loud and terrible as before, but the silence was gone.  
John stood up. “It’s okay Sherlock. You don’t have to answer the question but please just say _something_.” The worry swung in his voice and made it break at the end of each word.

“Why aren’t you at work?” Sherlock tried to change the topic.  
“There was a mistake with the rota,” John replied skimpily.

“I am glad you’re here,” Sherlock confessed almost inaudibly.  
“Well, I’m glad I went directly home when they told me my shift never started.” John’s voice got soft. “Come, I’ll help you up.”  
Sherlock felt strong arms around him and a moment later he stood in front of his doctor.  
“I recommend we better put you to bed.” And with those words John jockeyed him towards Sherlock’s room.

 

It was dark and cold and Sherlock was cold as soon as he sunk in the sheets. Shivering and with rattling teeth he looked up at John who regarded him with concern then turned around towards the closet and opened the doors. After standing there a few moments and starring inside he bowed down and picked something from the closet’s bottom.  
When he turned around again, Sherlock could see him holding up some blankets and _the grey jumper with the braided pattern_. John raised an eyebrow but didn’t say a word.  
“Mrs Hudson must have confused our closets,” Sherlock began an excuse but decided there was no sense in trying to explain it and fell silent again.  
Meanwhile John had returned to the bed and started spreading the blankets over Sherlock.

“Certainly…” was all he replied.  
When finished, the doctor pulled over his favourite jumper that had been lost for so long and sat down next to Sherlock’s right arm, his chest tilted towards the pale-faced head with dark curls and his hands folded in his lap. He looked at him, looked him in the eyes and whispered: “I worry about you, Sherlock. And I want to take care of you but please talk to me.”

Still shivering, Sherlock lifted his head from the pillow and stared into the blue eyes in front of him. “I know John. I worry about you, too.” He moved his right arm and pulled John’s right hand from where it had lain and squeezed it. He sat up. “I worry you don’t understand.” Breathing out the last word he lowered his head on the pillow again and closed his eyes. He felt exhausted but didn’t let go of the warm hand in his though.  
“Oh Sherlock, _you_ seem to not understand.” John stood up and freed his hand of Sherlock’s grip. Sherlock kept his eyes shut, already missing the heat of John’s skin and feeling the veil return as the mattress caved in right next to him and the blankets were lifted.

John wrapped his arms around him and pulled his body close to his.  
“Sometimes you’re so stupid,” he said and squeezed him.  
The veil lifted. And for the first time in ages Sherlock felt secure and warm while the voices kept silent. He concentrated only on the warmth and the sound of constant breathing next to him while sinking into a tight sleep.

* * *

 

John listened to the sound of his detective falling asleep and calming down until his breath came steady again.  
He smiled at what had just happened. At Sherlock’s reaction to his sudden touch, the clenching that only had lasted a blink of an eye but long enough to give his surprise away before he relaxed and embraced it.  
Yes, John felt good that night, snuggled against the man he cared about the most. He slept like a baby.  


 

 

 

 


	7. There are decisions to make

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter isn't read beta yet but I finished it ages ago and wanted to finally update.   
> also: friendly reminder that English is not my native language.

 

_Knock knock._

Martha set the kettle aside and headed for the door.   
“Oh, it’s you. Come in dear. I just was about to make a cuppa tea, want one?” she scurried back to fill the electric kettle with some more water.

Molly Hooper stepped in unbuttoning her coat. March had come cold and windy with a promise for new life to come.   
“Thank you Martha, I’ll take one. How are you?” she asked while hanging her coat and scarf over the backrest of a chair at the kitchen’s table.

“Oh, I’m fine. You know my back troubles me a bit but that’s the price of a long life isn’t it?” Martha replied. While taking two cups from the cupboard. “Biscuits?”.

“Not for me, thanks.” Molly had taken a seat and watched Mrs Hudson pull out a pack of biscuits and realising its emptiness when not one piece would fall on the plate. She lost a little curse and threw the empty package into a box near the kitchen counter.

The water was boiling when she turned around “But what about you, dear? How are you?” She filled the cups and balanced them to the table.   
“I’m a bit sick actually,” Molly replied between sips from her cup “but nothing to worry about. Couldn’t keep me from visiting my favourite Landlady.” She smiled but the old lady seemed to not be quite convinced and frowned a bit. She kept silent though.  
“I consider taking a break from St. Bart’s to be honest.” Molly broke the silence. “I’ve been thinking about travelling a bit. There’s this forensic biologist who offered me a little intern in Germany. It sounds interesting and I could learn something.” She hawed and looked at her friend whose face had lightened up now. “But I don’t know yet.”  
Mrs Hudson took her hand and smiled encouraging the young woman who sat across the table “You’ve got to! This is a great opportunity. What’s keeping you here, love?”

“I know, there’s just… The people here…” it was obvious that Molly began to feel uncomfortable moving on her chair from one side to the other.   
Martha squeezed her hand. “Love, these people won’t just disappear and, who knows, maybe you’ll meet new people in Germany! You got to go!”  
Molly blushed.   
“Oh there is someone, isn’t there?” a sign of understanding rushed over Mrs Hudson’s face, “I had no idea that you…”

“No! No there is nobody. Not in that way, at least.” Ms Hooper stood up and reached for her coat “Anyway, I got to go. Are the two children upstairs?” she cracked a smile and Mrs Hudson giggled “Oh yes, they are home but maybe you should knock before you enter.” She replied vaguely.   
“Wait what!?” Molly froze.   
“Well they don’t know that I know but although I’m not Sherlock I definitely see there’s something happening between the two of them.” She winked conspiratorial and rose from her chair now too.  
“Maybe I really should take that opportunity. When they finally get over themselves then I can get over my doubts too. Have a nice day Martha; and thank you” smiled Molly and hugged her friend goodbye.

 

* * *

 

 

Meanwhile upstairs Sherlock, focusing on one of his recent experiments, stood in the kitchen not being aware of anything happening around him. So he froze for the blink of an eye when two strong arms suddenly entangled his chest and he felt a warm body against his back.   
“What are you doing, John?” Sherlock asked.

He never got tired of asking. So far the answers he received from John hadn’t been able to satisfy him. Since that night they slept together, John had constantly done these things and although Sherlock enjoyed the soft touches between them he didn’t quite understand why John had suddenly begun to take each opportunity make contact.

  
John pressed his face against Sherlock’s right shoulder and mumbled into the gown’s collar. “Sherlock…” he lifted his head and whispered into Sherlock’s ear “does it need explaining?”  
Setting his utensils aside the detective turned around and looked his blogger straight in the eyes  
“Yes, if it isn’t obvious, explaining is necessary and therefor I am asking for it.”

John grinned, rushed forwards and placed a light kiss on the tip of Sherlock’s nose; he started starring and blinking into air immediately.  
  
A sigh and the warmth of the other body was gone. John had taken a step back and waited for his roommate to focus again.  
With a hand reaching out, his head slowly turning and an expression of sudden awareness on the face he finally returned from the depths of his mind.   
John looked at him in anticipation of what would come next.  
“Am I… Are you…?” the poor man was so confused, John pitied him a bit.

His shoulders straightened “John is it because how I am? Because that isn’t how it should …”  
“Shut up, Sherlock. No it is not like that. I don’t behave like that because I pity you or something. And I definitely neither did that night what I did because you were so vulnerable nor because I am somehow attracted to people with that mental state.” John interrupted.

“Oh, okay.” Sherlock seemed even more confused “Why then?” he asked.  
“You are so smart Sherlock, but sometimes you’re just so slow on the uptake. To be honest, the reason why I decided to stay with you just that night was because I thought you especially needed it back then.”  
“Doesn’t quite explain the inflationary presence of your hands on me don’t you think?” Sherlock was reserved now.

John, meanwhile, began to ask himself, not for the first time, why this man is the man he chose to love. Well, he didn’t choose to love him. It just happened and he couldn’t help it.   
“Because I love you, William Sherlock Scott Holmes! It’s not that hard to understand, really.” He said it. He finally said it. John couldn’t believe what just happened.

Neither could Sherlock, obviously.

He just kept silent and stared.  
John could almost see the gears working behind his forehead as Sherlock tried to process what he just heard.   
  
It felt like hours had passed when Sherlock finally focused on John again.   
He stepped towards him, framed John’s face with his hand and kissed him long and softly.   
“I …”  
He looked up at something behind John’s head.   
  
“I knocked.” A small voice stated.  
“Molly!” John turned around and looked at the woman who just appeared in the living room.

“Hello John,” she smiled “I didn’t mean to disturb…” A look of apology appeared on her face.   
John was disappointed and a little annoyed. He would never hear it.   
Sherlock was rattling with his experiments again so John decided to invite her.   
“Let’s sit down, take a chair.” He smiled at her and she smiled back.

They took a seat in the living room and after exchanging some nice words Molly couldn’t hold it back anymore.   
“So you finally got over yourselves, then. That’s a relief, really. Now I can leave in peace and without fear missing it.” She grinned and John blushed.  
“What do you mean” je decided to just ignore the comment “you’re leaving? Where will you go?”  
So Molly told him about the internship in Germany, when she had finished a deliberate silence filled the room.   
“You really should go, Molly. I know that man’s work and I see it as a great opportunity for you.” They heard a voice from the kitchen’s border where Sherlock was standing.  
A few long steps and he stood over Molly who looked at him in surprise as he said “You shouldn’t let a chance to improve and expand your great skills just pass. What are you still doing here?”  
Molly was speechless. So was John. Did he just compliment her?   
Before they could react to what just took place in that living room at 221B, Sherlock had returned to the kitchen and kept silent.   
  
After exchanging ideas and expectations on her trip to Germany, but not without expressing some worries and doubts, Molly said goodbye to John and Sherlock and left with the promise to arrange what would be needed for her adventure.   
  
It was noon and John’s stomach reminded him that he hadn’t eaten anything that day so he decided to take a walk and grab something to eat on the way. Since Sherlock hadn’t said a word in hours, it would be useless to ask him to join so he left.   
  



	8. Home

When John returned Sherlock seemed to have not moved at all.

"You hungry?" John asked and threw his coat over his chair.

"Food slows my thinking." Sherlock mumbled without looking up.

"Okay. Enough thinking for today!" John said rushed forward and grabbed Sherlock's wrists.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked when John pushed him against the kitchen counter.

"Stop thinking, Sherlock" he pressed against Sherlock, licking his neck and losing the grip around the wrists. "We need to ease up a bit." He felt his trousers tighten; Sherlock's apparently did the same. A rough kiss on his lips and Sherlock moaned "John, now?"

"Why not?" John asked unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt.

He heard Sherlock opening his mouth but heard no answer.

"Thought so." He continued unbuttoning his own shirt and let it slide down his shoulders and fall to the ground. He grabbed Sherlock by his waist walked him over to the coffee table and pushed him down.

Sherlock let it happen, lying back down on the coffee table watching John unbuckleing his belt while kissing his stomach, his lips following the fine line of light hair down to his bellybutton and further.

"Aah" Sherlock moaned.

When he reached the waistband of Sherlock's trousers John looked up at him without lifting his lips from the skin as if he was asking for permission to continue. Sherlock gave a subtle nod lifted his bottom and John pulled at the trousers exposing the rest of Sherlock's pale body.

But John didn't continue.

Sherlock lifted his head in confusion only to see John staring at him.

"John?" He asked in an unsettled tone.

"I'm sorry Sherlock. It's just... You’re so beautiful." John whispered resting one hand on Sherlock’s chest.

Sherlock did not know what to say. He just lay there, blinking and panting. He noticed John’s pants tighten even more while he looked at Sherlock’s body all the way from his head to his swollen cock.

Now John opened his trousers but only knelt down pushing Sherlock’s knees a bit open and adjusting his position until he sat between Sherlock’s legs.   
He touched his knees and slowly, very slowly traced his right index finger up Sherlock’s left inner thigh and further up until he reached his belly button where he covered it with his flat hand.  
Now, John began to kiss his way along the line he just had drawn with his finger on Sherlock’s skin, leaving wettish spots here and there.

Sherlock arched his neck back, taking in every bit of the feeling John left on his skin: the prickle the kisses left, the tickle when John’s tongue streaked his most sensitive spots.

John did not trace the line all the way up but took a turn left when he reached and kissed Sherlock’s hip bone. His kisses now became more soft and slow until his lips reached the shaft of Sherlock’s cock.

Sherlock now arched his back up moaning and panting with his eyes closed and his head arched back.

John took him in closing his lips around Sherlock’s erection moving his face up and down; slowly at first then faster, listening to the detective’s breath getting faster and his moaning getting more demanding.

He grabbed Sherlock’s hip and pulled him a little closer the butt reaching over the table’s edge as his back arched up and then down again.

Sherlock’s breath went faster and faster and just before he reached climax, John’s face popped up in front of his kissing him roughly but deeply his tongue pushed his lips open and invaded his mouth.

John had lost his trousers now too and while they were kissing and touching each other Sherlock came and spilled over his lower belly, John followed half a second later leaving them panting but still exhilarated on their coffee table. Amidst their chairs. In their living-room.

This was home.


	9. The Anchor

When John woke up later that night he noticed that Sherlock was gone so he got up and left the bedroom.

Sherlock was sitting in his chair in front of the coffee table on which they had had so much fun earlier.  
Sherlock did not look like fun now.

So many noises and so many voices were trapped inside his head and he could not escape them.   
“You are gross!” they screamed at him.   
Laughter was floating through his mind.  
“You are pathetic!” another voice screamed.  
Something whispered but he could not understand it over the laughter and screaming.  
He ran through his mind palace, opening doors looking for a quiet room.  
The whispering got louder.  
“Do you really think someone would love you? Sherlock Holmes, the genius detective. Can’t even figure out when someone just wants to fuck him, doesn’t even see the disgust in people’s eyes.” John stood in front of him.  
He had opened the door to John’s room.  
“I don’t love you. I don’t even like you. I’m just lonely and I needed a place to stay. Did you really think I would come back for you? For YOU!?” he asked derisive.   
  
“No!” Sherlock said. “I trusted you. All these things you said.”  
“Lies” John replied. “You might think you’re a bloody genius, Sherlock. But I am a good liar.” He added.  
“Oh Sherlock, of course I come back to you. Oh Sherlock, of course I will stay. You‘re so amazing, Sherlock. How do you do this, Sherlock. You are my best friend, Sherlock.” He mocked his own voice.

Sherlock fought back tears. It all made sense now.  
Everyone had left him in his life. Everyone, who had ever mattered to him, had left.   
It was only legit that John did too.  
When Sherlock looked up, John was leaning closer and whispered “why would anyone ever love you, Sherlock? You’re a pathetic show off who only cares for himself. You are pretty, yes. A good fuck, nothing more.”  
John burst in laughter.  
  
Suddenly Sherlock found himself in the round padded cell where he’d met Moriarty in chains once.  
The man was still there but not chained anymore. This time it was Sherlock who wore chains around his neck and wrists.  
“Well, look who’s come back. Not dead yet? Why won’t you die already Sherlock?” Moriarty’s face appeared over him.  
“Mommy won’t cry and Daddy won’t grieve.  
Brother won’t care, nobody will notice if you leave.” He said in a singsong.

Sherlock tried to scream but not a single noise would leave his mouth.  
Moriarty opened the door and left.   
He was all alone.  
All he could think of was getting rid of the chains so he started scratching, he scratched at his wrists and throat but the chains would not loosen up.  
He scratched and scratched.   
Panic swelled in his throat.  
He was trapped.  
His arms started to hurt and his fingernails turned red.

Suddenly he could not move his arms anymore.   
There was a tight feeling that had closed around his wrists.  
  
“Sherlock!”

He heard a voice from far far away.

“Sherlock, stop it!”

The chains were gone.

“Sherlock, look at me! Look at me!” John’s voice sounded like it was spoken through a veil.

A face appeared in front of his eyes.  
John!

He was holding his wrists and looking at him with a mix of panic and worry.

“Sherlock, can you hear me?” he asked.  
“John?” Sherlock cleared his throat and focused.   
“Don’t touch me!” he screamed pushed John away and jumped on his feet.

“Sherlock?!” John looked startled but kept the distance.

“Don’t come near me ever again, John!” Sherlock started crying.   
He looked down his arms. They were bloody, his hands blood-stained.  
“Why did you do this John? Why did you come back?”  
  
John made a step towards Sherlock and reached for him but Sherlock stumbled backwards raising his hands in defence.  
“I said ‘don’t touch me’!” Sherlock screamed.  
  
“Okay, okay.” John whispered. “Sherlock, I came back for you” he added.  
“Why are you lying again?” Sherlock did not try to hold back his tears. What was the use anyway?

“I am not lying. I came back for you. I missed you.” John spoke softly, slowly moving toward Sherlock. “I missed you and I love you.”

“I don’t believe you. You said you didn’t even like me! You said I wasn’t worth more than a fuck!” Sherlock sank to his knees. His arms hurt and his head felt like exploding.  
He was screaming inside and outside.  
  
John rushed forward and knelt down in front of his friend. Before Sherlock could recoil John had wrapped his arms around him and held him tight.  
“Shh” John tried to calm him down.   
“I swear to you, Sherlock: I’m not lying. I love you and I will never leave you again. It’s all in your head. That mind palace of yours is playing tricks on you.” He caressed Sherlock’s neck and back while holding him as tight as possible.

The tightness and the pressure calmed Sherlock down and slowly, very slowly he left his mind palace behind. The noises and screams became quitter, not silent but quieter.  
John was holding him.   
John was there.  
John had not left him.

He buried his face in the curve of John’s neck and let his tears roll.

“I’m so sorry John. I’m so sorry. Please don’t leave me.” He cried.

John leaned back and cupped Sherlock’s face with both hands.  
He looked in Sherlock’s eyes.  
They were dark blue and green like the stormy sea.

“Never, Sherlock. I will never leave you.”   
He kissed Sherlock roughly on his mouth and hugged him again.

Sherlock closed his eyes, raised his arms and held on to John as fast as he could.

John could not heal him. Neither John nor Sherlock expected anything else. But John could be his anchor to the real world. And maybe that would be enough.

The darkness inside his head was still there, so was the noise. But with John, Sherlock understood, with John he was safe from being swallowed wholly. For now.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. This did not quite go where I wanted it, but in order to keep it real I had to take a short cut. I think Sherlock has suffered enough tho.


End file.
